


This Is His Body, This Is His Love

by subjunctive



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Begging, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, F/M, Femdom, Future Fic, POV Jon, Porn Without Plot, Service Submission, overwrought titles for porn 2kforever, self-restraint, sexual denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 17:03:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7582510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subjunctive/pseuds/subjunctive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon knows immediately what that voice means.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is His Body, This Is His Love

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Florence + the Machine.

"Undress me."

Jon knew immediately what that voice meant. The words came as she was turned away, as he was unlacing his boots and tugging them off. The very first time he had seen these desires, she'd been nervous. There weren't any nerves shaking her voice tonight. Even though she was quiet, the calm command in her voice carried across the room, sunk into Jon's skin as it always did, wormed into his marrow.

She smoothed her bright hair over one shoulder, running her fingers through it. He took his time, letting their breathing and the rasping of laces against cloth be the only sounds above the crackling fire. As he tugged on the laces, he was half-hypnotized by the small sways and jerks of her body, and without thinking he kissed the knob at the top of her spine.

Sansa stiffened. "Don't." The word was harsh, sudden. But she took two breaths and her shoulders dropped again.

Her hair fell in a sheet across her back as she let the dress fall to the floor in a puddle. Two small, graceful steps took her away from him. She was clad only in her smallclothes, and the flush that crept down her neck and touched the tops of her breasts could have been from the wine, or the fire, or--him. The thought curled low in his gut, hardening his cock, and made him lick his lips.

"You're not going to return the favor?" Jon teased.

"I'd rather watch you," she returned easily, her blue eyes fixed on him even though her cheeks reddened at her own words. Once she would have been shy. Once he'd thought those blue, blue Tully eyes as cold as winter, at least when they were trained on him. But as she watched him disrobe, there was nothing but liquid warmth there.

The first time she had asked him for this, she'd faltered, too embarrassed to speak, and he'd laughed before thinking. He hadn't meant to laugh at her; it was only that she was less accustomed to laughing in bed, he'd realized later, to his shame. When he'd figured it out, he'd laughed again in relief. He and Ygritte had played such games on occasion, though Sansa was more serious and less playful. And Sansa didn't want to tussle, didn't want to be the conquering spearwife. No, her desires were for a different sort of game.

Naked, he stood before her. Her gaze flicked over him, head to toe, assessing.

"Enjoying the view?"

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Hush." She nodded toward the bed, and he went.

Her gaze was hot on him as he lay back. She hadn't so much as touched him, but his cock was already half-risen. He made sure to stretch, and slowly, his eyes never leaving her face, reached over his head and pressed his palms flat against the headboard. He’d suggested restraints once, but she shook her head: she liked knowing he was doing it freely.

Her lips parted and she let out half a sigh before biting her lip. He wondered if her thighs were already slick, if she'd let him lick her wet cunt.

She sat next to him on the bed, running a hand through his loose hair. Her fingertips scratched his scalp lightly, and he sighed and nuzzled into her hand.

Pulling away, she slapped him lightly with just the ends of her fingers. It didn't even sting, but his cheek tingled. She traced his lips with a fingertip while his head buzzed.

"You won't touch me without my leave."

"A shame," he whispered, "but all right."

She fisted her hand in his hair, and bent to kiss him. Her lips tugged softly at his, and the tip of her tongue traced his mouth, seeking entrance, but he did not yield, not even when she sighed impatiently.

"Didn't think that through?" he asked when she pulled away, and her hand tightened painfully in his hair.

"Kiss me, Jon," she commanded.

He paid for his insolence: this time she didn't make it so easy for him. She hovered above him and he had to work for it until his neck ached, and even then it was only shallow nips and sucks and licks. But when she pulled back, they were both of them gasping, and she looked like she wanted to devour him. _She-Wolf of Winterfell._ She'd earned her nickname well.

Her hands were as hungry as her gaze. She filled them with his body, light caresses and bold ones alike, everywhere but where he really wanted her. Jon stared at the ceiling and tried to breathe.

She straddled his thighs, safely downward of his aching cock, and ran her fingers over the scars on his breast. They had faded some with the years, but he thought they would never truly disappear. Her lips she gave him for every dagger's kiss he'd received so long ago in the snow. The blades had been cold, but her mouth was warm upon him now, and the ends of her hair brushed him as she moved lower.

His muscles clenched with the effort of staying still when her breath tickled the hairs on his belly. Unexpectedly her tongue dragged over the head of his cock, rough as a kitten’s, and he almost shouted, but she darted away from his seeking thrust, sitting up again astride his legs. His cock was fully stiff, still glistening in the firelight from her wicked lick and outlined by the auburn curls covering her mound, and oh yes, there was his answer: her lower lips were slick, and her inner thighs too.

She caught him staring. “And what are you licking your lips for?” she asked, though he knew she wasn’t displeased, because the arch of her back intensified. She enjoyed him looking, especially when he couldn’t touch.

“You,” he said simply, and watched her eyes flutter and darken from Tully blue to something deeper. Her fingers drew her auburn braid over one shoulder and she toyed with it, the only sign of lingering nervousness Jon could see.

He let his gaze sweep up her body deliberately, filling his eyes with her: from her narrow knees to her creamy pale thighs to the dip of her navel--and further, lingering on her rosy nipples and the swan’s curve of her throat. On these nights the only thing he was guaranteed was a good look, and he intended to take his fill.

By the time his gaze met hers, she was fairly panting, though for Sansa, so well contained, _panting_ meant that her lips were slightly open. He watched her throat bob as she swallowed.

“What do you want?” she asked, and there was a rough quality to her lowered voice that made Jon respond to her. It was a side of his wife no one saw but him, and he loved it.

There was a little of the wolf’s growl in his voice when he said, “I want to touch you, for starters.”

Her fingers twitched where they rested against her thighs. Her voice was barely audible. “How?”

Jon’s idea of where tonight’s game was going solidified. If he was going to have such a good view…

“That spot you like on your ribs,” he said, and one of her hands rose to touch herself there. The faint rasp of her fingernails over her ribs was impossibly arousing; he yearned to replace her hand with his own, to set his mouth there and lick. But his hands didn’t move.

“It’s not like when you do it,” she murmured.

“No,” he agreed hoarsely.

“What else?”

“Cup your breasts.” She raised an eyebrow, unmoving, and he fumbled to add, “I would, I mean, that’s what I want to do.”

She palmed herself, and her head tipped back, a hiss of breath escaping her.

“I’d squeeze,” he said, and she did so, and his head fell back against the pillow with a groan. Her hands were smaller than his and her touch was delicate--not at all like his, though he fancied himself gentle enough. But the sight of her slim, tapered fingers sinking into her own flesh, rubbing and circling, was something else. His breath was growing quick and shallow, and the sound of it seemed to beat in his ears, a rhythm absorbed into his very bloodstream.

“Your nipples,” he said after watching her fingers circle one erect tip, and gods, he was practically croaking. Watching her touch herself always worked him into a state. “I’d lick them, suck them. I will if you’ll let me.”

Sansa made a high noise in the back of her throat, but she didn’t say yes, so Jon could only groan. He closed his eyes against her, thinking only to reduce his agony, but then he felt her fingers against his jaw. Her weight shifted forward, over him, and she whispered in his ear, “Don’t close your eyes again.”

Jon let out a ragged breath and did as she bade. His cock was trapped between them--the most attention it had gotten yet tonight, and though he tried not to thrust up against her, he couldn’t quite stop himself completely.

“Sansa, let me touch you,” he pled, for she liked that, “let me run my hands all over you, your legs and your back and your arse, gods, between your legs, I know you’re wet--”

She moaned, shifting against him, and he could almost feel the wetness of her sex, if she moved just a little more he could--

She didn’t. She sat back again, her face near as red as her hair, and there were tremors running through her. One of her fingers she dragged up her thigh until it was right there next to her cunt. Her eyes slipped half-closed as she touched herself, dipping the tip of her finger inside. Her soft, shuddering sigh was almost swallowed by the groan that vibrated from deep in his chest. 

“You’re right,” she gasped, “I am wet. _Ah._ ” Her finger slid deeper with a wet sound, and though it was hidden by her wrist pressed to her mound he could see it in his mind’s eye, imagine the slippery wet heat there, her knuckles pressed against herself in a somehow elegant gesture.

“My hands are smaller than yours,” she said breathlessly. “It’s not as--”

Her words tore at his self-imposed restraint, and it took everything he had not to reach for her and tumble her down to the bed.

“I’d get my fingers in you,” he told her instead, to a sweet gasp, “three or even four, I bet you could take it, couldn’t you, you’re so wet, wet and hot, I want to feel you around me, _Sansa_.” Her hand twisted and he glimpsed three slick fingers disappearing inside her body, and her hips rocking into them. “Take me, my tongue or my fingers or my cock--”

She liked it when he begged, though he never knew whether she would grant him his desires. But the gods smiled upon him: Sansa slid forward so her wet cunt was on his cock, trapping it between them, and the suddenness of the contact made him shout and nearly let go of the headboard.

But she didn’t take him inside herself like he wanted, even though her slit was right _there_ and he could even feel her spasm and gods, he’d love to feel those muscles squeezing around him, tight and hot and fluttering. All of this he told her in an increasingly incoherent stream as she rocked over him--and over and over again, the slow slip-slide of her intoxicating and heady and never enough.

“No,” she gasped more than once, her eyes wide, and every time she did she shuddered against him, her rhythm disrupted. “You can’t have me,”--and he thought this was the true source of her pleasure.

“Don’t finish before me,” she told him when he was close, her voice breaking, but his resolve was sorely tested by her still-wet fingers at his lips. He sucked them into his mouth blindly, greedily, desperate for the lingering taste of her. It was musky and sharp, and he imagined her splitting her thighs over his face and letting him lick her there and suck at her with his lips and tongue and teeth. He was aching for her, climax coiling in his gut, but he couldn’t, he couldn’t yet--

But it must have done the same for her, because in no time at all she was crying out and seizing, her hips grinding against him, and the sight of her peak sent him tumbling over the edge after her, white-hot.

He came back to the sound of the sound of their harsh breath sawing through the air between them. She stayed suspended over him for a moment, sweating and trembling, and finally said in a tremulous voice, “You can t--”

She hadn’t even gotten the words _touch me_ out when he gathered her up tight in his arms and rolled them to the side together. They were both over-sensitive and covered in sweat, but he didn’t care, and she didn’t seem to mind. He peppered her face with kisses--her brow, her cheeks, her chin, her nose--every part of her within easy reach.

Her shaking slowed, her eyes still closed, and her breath began to even out. Jon didn’t pretend to understand exactly what she got out of these nights, but he loved her and wanted her to know she was loved. He slid one hand up to cradle the back of her head and murmured, “Gods, you’re incredible.”

“You weren’t--disappointed?” she breathed, and he shook his head, his nose rubbing against hers, and when she sighed some of the tension went out of her.

Jon kissed her neck, where she tasted of salt. “No. It was hard watching you touch yourself and holding back, though.”

“ _Hard_ indeed,” she said archly, and her fingers skimmed lower between them. “I happen to recall.”

He laughed and caught her wrist, tugging her closer to him so he could kiss her properly.


End file.
